


One Night In The Rose

by kihadu



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 17:32:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kihadu/pseuds/kihadu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DA Kink Meme prompt: Fenris and Zevran meet in the Blooming Rose, hit it off and have one night stand sex before the ex-crow runs off or Fenris escapes to his mansion. </p><p>Bonus for Hawke doing Zevran's quest after the one night stand and brings Fenris along. Shocked to find Zev again, Fenris is embarrassed and doesn't want to explain how he knows the ex-crow... but Zevran just comes out with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Link for the original prompt [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/10749.html?thread=42423293#t42423293). I tried to post it all there but there are things like character limits and ughh.

The idea is put into Fenris’ mind when they go to the Blooming Rose to meet with Nuncio. It’s been so long, he thinks, looking at the building, closed for the waking hours. The idea of paying for flesh has never exactly appealed to him, but he’s been there often enough over the years of travelling with Hawke that he knows that these particular whores are more than happy with their life. The pay is decent, the living conditions acceptable, and Madam Lusine is firm with any patron who crosses a line. And it has been so very long.

Later that night he leaves his mansion with a mission in mind.

He leaves his sword behind, instead putting on a nobleman’s jacket he’s found in one of the closets in the hopes that he’ll blend in a little more easily. It’s not that he’s exactly ashamed, but if he were to come across, say, Isabela, he’s not sure he’ll ever hear the end of it.

The light is burning orange in the dusty air, and inside the Blooming Rose the air is comfortingly busy, too many people that Fenris’ arrival is noticed, but too few that he feels discomforted by being around strangers. The place is familiar, the bar is over there, he knows which faces he’ll see sitting at which tables… He breathes in a steady breath and goes over to the bar to order a drink. He’s been here often enough with Hawke that somehow he finds himself being sent off to a table with the promise that a drink will be brought out to him.

He sits, and looks around. He knows the prices, but hasn’t yet determined who - or what - he wants. An elf or a human, male or female, or some ambiguous mix of them both? Or, perhaps, a dwarf, he thinks, glancing around to see a couple sitting at a table talking loudly with some humans. He cannot imagine that their touches would be the right balance of tender and rough that he desires, and his gaze moves on. Anyway, he doesn’t think he can be bothered with the efforts of flirtation and invitation. His plan was to come and take his pick of whoever Madam Lusine has on the menu tonight. He takes the drink and gives a smile to the server that is closer to a grimace, but she sashays her hips as she walks away, and he wonders if perhaps she is on offer.

“Is this seat taken?” asks a man - an elf, one with tattoos curving down the side of his face that are not in any Dalish pattern. Fenris shakes his head, and the elf sits. “See anything you like?”

“Not yet,” he says, trying to be the suave, brooding elf Varric likes to write about. “You?”

“Oh, yes,” says the elf breezily. “I was going to buy him a drink but I see he already has one.” Fenris looks sharply at the elf, and notices that hazel eyes are fixed on him.

“You mean me,” says Fenris, more harshly than he intends.

“If you would rather I do not, I will merely sit and offer you advice on who you should pick,” says the elf. “Though,” he leans a little closer and winks, “none are as good as me, and you’ll have to _pay_ them, which is not so fun, hm?”

Fenris takes a moment to consider, looking around the room in case there has been some pretty face he has missed, but they’ll all require him to brashly declare his intentions or to offer up money, and while he’s not loathe to part with his coins - that was his intention tonight, after all - this elf… He looks back at him. The man has blond, braided hair, pouty lips and soft eyes.

He looks at the other elf’s hands, curled laxly around his mug, and imagines them touching him.

“Do you have a room here?” asks Fenris. The other elf opens his eyes wide in surprise.

“You are very brash.”

“I see no point in dancing around the issue,” says Fenris, refusing to feel embarrassed, not here. “You know as well as I what I want here.” The elf licks his lips, just a flick of tongue over pinkish skin.

“I like your attitude. I am Zevran.”

“Fenris,” says Fenris, blushing that he did not even think to introduce himself.

Zevran stands, holding out a hand, and Fenris takes it. Fenris stumbles a little as he stands, unused to touching anyone, and the other elf steadies him.

“Easy,” he croons. “I take it that it has been some time for you?” Fenris looks away from the piercing gaze, and Zevran steps close, crowding into his space. He takes the mug from his hand and puts it on the table, cupping Fenris’ face in his hand. “Do not be ashamed. I only wish to know, to temper myself.”

That snaps an unbridled reaction from Fenris. “Please,” he says. “Do not hold yourself back on my account.”

Zevran’s eyes widen, and he smiles. “Let’s take this somewhere more private, and be quick about it.”


	2. Chapter 2

The room is darkened, only two candles straining to fill the room with light, and Zevran closes the door behind him. Suddenly uncertain, Fenris wishes he had not left his drink downstairs so that he could gulp it down.

“Anytime you want to leave,” says Zevran, unbuckling his belt. It drops onto the table with a heavy clink of weaponry, and Zevran steps close. He’s slightly taller than Fenris, but only slightly.

“Those downstairs are not as handsome as you,” says Fenris, the words struggling out of his mouth. He can feel the heat rolling off the other elf, feel the movement of air as Zevran breathes in and out, can smell the scent of soap and leather and sweat. He has not been so close to another person in so long that he hardly knows what to do with his hands, but he knows what he wants and he puts them on the elf’s hips, drawing him close. “Do not bite the white lines,” he warns. “And do not touch your hands to my neck.”

“There is a scar near my spine,” says Zevran. “I would prefer if you did not touch it. It causes me pain.” He grins at Fenris, who is looking at those lips, the way they curve easily and the white teeth behind. He leans in, slightly up, and kisses him.

It’s strange to kiss someone who isn’t human, who isn’t Hawke, but it’s been so long that those memories are hazy and Zevran feels so different beneath his hands that he cannot remember the human for more than a moment. Zevran’s narrow hips press against his, the material of his skirt thick and rough, his tongue smooth against Fenris. He lets Zevran take the kiss, lets him guide their mouths open and lets the man push against him, noses bumping until they find a rhythm, a hand sliding into his hair to hold him steady while Zevran does his best to devour him. Fenris feels dizzy, overwhelmed.

“If you fuck like you kiss,” growls Fenris, as Zevran moves to kiss his jaw, his neck, his ear.

“No biting?” he asks, and Fenris shudders at the breath on his skin.

“Not on the lines,” he says, "you may lick," and he gasps as Zevran does exactly that, running his tongue along the shape of the lines across the hollow of his throat and up over his chin. He shivers, and tightens his grip on Zevran’s hips, then moves to slide his hands under Zevran’s shirt. Suddenly Zevran is letting go of him, pulling back and grabbing Fenris’ hands.

“Uh, my apologies, but I think you’d rather you end the night with all pieces attached, hm?”

“That would be preferable,” chuckles Fenris. The tension he felt earlier in the evening, downstairs trying to pick someone, has gone, and he feels relaxed as Zevran brushes hair out of his face.

“Then you’ll allow me to undress myself. If you’ll sit on the bed, you may watch,” he offers. Fenris complies, reminded that he has his own stash of weaponry on him. He takes the chance to rid himself of it, pulling off his jacket and undershirt, and settling down on the bed. Zevran has not moved, looking at him with unabashed lust. “Maker, my life has not been so pure that I deserve you.”

“If purity’s what you wanted, I am the wrong elf for you.”

Zevran blinks at him, eyes wandering down over Fenris’ torso, taking in the pattern of lyrium against the pattern of scars, a patchwork of texture to the smooth brown skin. Fenris shivers under the gaze, drawing in a sharp and sudden breath that teases his muscles taut, and the motion shakes Zevran out of his revere.

“I was undressing for you.”

Belt already off he unbuckles his gauntlets and sets them down, the motions quick and easy, but at Fenris’ intake of breath at the expanse of skin revealed he slows, flexes his forearms and rolls his wrist as though stretching the muscles. He lets his hands slow down to unattach the spaulders, revealing shoulders and biceps that he rubs gently, rolling his neck and stretching his shoulder blades. The movement draws a little groan from him, and he can feel Fenris’ gaze hot on his face. When he went downstairs tonight he thought only that he might find an amusing partner to talk with, not this tattooed wonder that is licking his lips as though it is all he can do to keep himself on the bed and not touching.

He turns, lets his fingers slowly undo the knot that holds the laces of his tunic.

“You are cruel,” says Fenris, and immediately after, “I want those fingers inside of me.”

“All in good time,” says Zevran, tugging the tunic open. He still has another shirt on underneath, thin enough that his tattoos are slightly visible through the whitish material, and he shrugs out of the tunic and places it carefully down on the table. It clinks a little, knives and lockpicks and poisons making the clothing heavy. He lifts the undershirt up over his head, and Fenris unconsciously leans forward as solid hips and hard abs are revealed, peppered with scars and overlaced with swirling tattoos.

He makes a little noise, eyes following the trail that Zevran’s hands lazily stroke down his body, tracing the lines that Fenris so dearly wants to follow with his tongue.

“Ah, patience, my handsome,” says Zevran, holding up a hand. He leans back against the table and picks up a foot. This, he does deftly, unlacing the boot and sliding it off. His boots are for his pleasure, not for another’s, and he takes care in ensuring that the laces are loosened and the boots placed carefully down on the ground. He peels off thin socks and flexes his toes.

“Please,” says Fenris. “I would like to touch you.”

Zevran pads across the room, and stands in front of Fenris. “I do so like a pushy bed-partner,” he says, still teasing, and Fenris growls and launches up, catching Zevran’s hair and pulling him down. He grins at the startled look on the elf’s face before kissing him brutally, wrapping one arm around Zevran’s warm body so that their chests and pressed together, the buckles of Zevran’s skirt digging into his skin. He groans as Zevran rocks his hips against his, and drags his other hand up Zevran’s thigh, clutching the thick muscle of his arse.

“You’re still dressed,” mutters Zevran, suddenly sitting up, straddling Fenris and grinning down at him. When Fenris tries to move he shakes his head. “Stay,” he says, almost growls, and Fenris stills.

 _Not a slave, not a slave, not a_ \- his internal chant is broken by lips on his nipple, fingernails tracing along a hip. The kiss is tender, no teeth, no violence, just a kiss on one breast and then the other, a hand tracing patterns that don’t coincide to the lyrium that traces over his belly and down. Then fingers are hooking over the edge of his trousers and tugging them down. Zevran curses a little when they catch and Fenris chuckles, moving a hand to pull the clasp that keeps them on. Zevran swats him away and does it himself, sliding material down over his hips and thighs, kissing the skin as it is revealed inch by inch, nuzzling against the light tendrils of pubic hair and running his tongue along the inside of Fenris’ thigh.

He rolls the trousers off and tosses them away, pausing to undo his own skirt and awkwardly pulling it off without getting off the bed. Fenris watches him, his cheeks slightly pink but his gaze steady as he takes in the sight of Zevran, naked in the dim light.

“The tattoos, they do go everywhere,” he breathes, and immediately cannot believe he said such an idiotic thing. Zevran only chuckles and leans over him, their thighs pressing together.

“I could say the same of you.” He kisses him, gently, softly, and it feels like they are starting anew. Zevran’s thighs are rougher, thicker with hair than Fenris’, and the sensation is strange, just as it is strange to feel hands pressing him into the mattress and a weight above him, tongue on his throat and tracing patterns over his collarbone, a careful teasing slowness to Zevran’s actions.

“Please,” he growls, right into Zevran’s ear. “I’m not a simpering virgin. Have at me.” He snatches at Zevran’s arms and rolls him over, landing on top of him so that their cocks are pressed hard together. He holds Zevran’s wrists in one hand so that the elf cannot touch him and grinds against him, digging him into the mattress and eliciting a deep groan from the elf. He kisses him, hard, then bites his neck and rocks his hips again, gasping himself at the sensation of skin on skin and hard, hot flesh against his own.

“You’re going to fuck me,” he says, speaking directly into Zevran’s ear while the elf whimpers beneath him and does his best to angle the slide of their hips. “You’re going to use your fingers first to open me up, slowly, one by one, but you’re not going to make me beg,” he moves down and bites one of Zevran’s nipples, then licks the reddened flesh and kisses it in apology. “You’re going to ask me, very nicely, to suck your cock, to make you wet and ready to enter me. And you’re going to ask for the privilege of touching me.” He pulls back suddenly. “You do have oil? I fear I was lax in planning for that.”

Zevran opens his mouth and tries to answer, then licks his lips and tries again. “Of course,” he gasps. “Keep talking.”

“You’re going to look into my eyes as you enter me, slowly, very slowly, and you’re going to bruise me in your attempt to keep from going faster than I’ll allow.” He slides his hips against Zevran’s more deliberately this time. “And only when I’m completely satisfied will I allow you to come.”

“Inside of you?” asks Zevran, breathless and wanting, craning his head to reach Fenris’ lips, wanting desperately for his cock to have more friction against it.

“If you’re very good,” says Fenris, bending down and breathing against Zevran’s open mouth as he pants, “yes.”

“Maker,” sighs Zevran. “I do not deserve you.”

“No,” says Fenris. “I’d wager you don’t.”

“The drawers,” says Zevran, and Fenris takes a second to remember, of course, oil, and pulls away to fetch it. “Lie down,” Zevran commands, and Fenris flinches at the tone but lies down immediately, and Zevran draws in a long breath. He’s had sex with difficult partners before, people with past problems and triggers, so he steadies himself as he coats his fingers with the oil and tosses the little bottle onto the bed. “Please,” he says more softly. “If you’ll let me.” Fenris gives a small, tense nod, and Zevran kisses him, other hand sliding over Fenris’ hip and down between his thighs. He makes the pressure firm, the movement sure, and Fenris parts willingly and inclines his hips to allow Zevran access.

He closes his eyes and breathes carefully as a finger presses against him.

“Easy,” whispers Zevran. “I’ve got you.” Fenris nods slowly, and then opens his eyes. Zevran kisses him, and eases the finger in more deeply, and Fenris leans back on the bed, canting his hips and shuffling closer to the pressure.

“More,” he commands. “More,” and Zevran kisses his throat and bites the unmarked skin, Fenris pressing against his mouth and his hand and Zevran pushes another finger in and slides them slowly, feeling the tight heat of Fenris’ body closing around him and wanting, wanting so much for that to be more than his fingers enclosed there. “Slowly,” Fenris reminds him, and Zevran feels as though he’s the one being teased here, told to go slowly while Fenris lazily strokes his own cock, Zevran’s heavy and ignored, his skin cold and untouched. He jerks accidentally, shoving deep into Fenris and the elf gasps in pleasure, then just as immediately grabs Zevran’s hair, pulling him hard. Zevran whines, the pain going straight to his groin and he stares at Fenris. “You’re meant to be a quick fuck not,” he whines at a sudden pressure around his balls.

“Another finger,” says Fenris. Zevran shuts up to obey, and groans at the weight of Fenris pushing against him, the sight of the lyrium in the flickering candlelight. He tries to dip his head to lick those lines, but Fenris’ grip tightens and he whines, and stills, only his fingers working against the pressure of Fenris’ slight bucking hips. Any coherent thoughts are shattered by the sound that Fenris makes as Zevran accidentally crooks his fingers inside of him. “I would have your mouth on me,” he blurts, his accent heavy. Fenris meets his eye and he hastily thinks to add, “if you would. Please.”

Fenris shifts his body and draws himself off from Zevran’s hand. “You will not touch my hair,” he warns as they rearrange themselves. “Later, yes, but not for this.”

Zevran dips his head. “Whatever you desire, I will do it,” he says.

A small smile plays at the corner of Fenris’ mouth, close to Zevran’s groin. He looks up at Zevran. “I believe you.”

His lips are warm, his tongue is wet, and he makes no fanfare of the action, instead immediately swallowing Zevran down as though the length of him is naught. Zevran gasps, clutching at the bed sheets in an attempt to keep from grabbing Fenris, wanting to thrust up into that mouth but not knowing if it’s allowed. He whines as Fenris swallows around him, the pressure hard and hot and he lets out a gasping cry.

“Maker,” he manages. “Fuck.” Fenris just as suddenly lets him go, sliding his mouth quickly off off him and then kissing the head, running his tongue over the slit and then down, mouthing at Zevran’s balls. Brain stuttering, Zevran scarcely remembers what Fenris said before. “If you feel as good as that,” he groans as Fenris’ mouth slides over him again. “Yes, please, make me ready for you.” Fenris’ tongue runs down the length of him, lips tight around him, and he gasps. “I won’t last long,” he says. “Please, have a little mercy.”

“Alright,” says Fenris, pulling back and snatching up the oil. He pours a liberal amount onto his own fingers and press them inside of himself without warning, and Zevran’s eyes open wide.

“I thought you’d be shy.”

“I know what I want,” snaps Fenris.

“Me, inside you?” Zevran asks hopefully. Fenris shuffles back on the mattress and leans back, rolling his hips and baring himself ready for Zevran. Zevran takes his legs, settles himself between them and runs his hands down Fenris’ thighs. Fenris flinches, and apologises. “Ticklish?” asks Zevran with a smile, digging his fingers in more firmly, and Fenris nods. His stomach suddenly dips, mouth open and chest tight, Zevran settling himself between Fenris’ legs and pressing his cock against Fenris. Slow, he reminds himself. Slow, slow, and slowly he guides himself into Fenris. He’s tight, so tight he thinks that with only a few moments he will come, and he breathes out, tightening his grip over Fenris’ hips and closing his eyes to steady himself.

“Open,” snaps Fenris. “You will look at me.” Zevran quickly obeys, locking eyes with Fenris and the elf blinks at him, his mouth open, cheeks flushed, eyes dark and stomach rippling with each gasping breath. His cock is hard and red, but Fenris dips his hips and pushes himself onto Zevran’s cock more firmly, forcing the elf to gasp and dig his fingers into Fenris’ skin to keep himself steady.

“You’re too much,” he breathes. “I can’t… Please. Please, you’re so tight, and you look so,” he stares down at the elf, spread out on the bed with white hair haloing his face and tattoos twisting over sweating skin. “You are the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Please let me fuck you,” it’s a strangled, begging question, and he isn’t sure he’ll cope if Fenris tells him to keep it slow.

“Yes,” says Fenris, his voice as thick and filled with wanting as Zevran’s, and it’s all that Zevran needs before he pushes roughly into Fenris and immediately drags out, bucking his hips with a cry that send his hands stuttering over Fenris’ body looking for a purchase. A hand grabs at his hair and teeth dig into the flesh along his ribs, and he gasps, and grinds his hips.

“Inside?” asks Zevran.

“Yes, yes,” says Fenris, mouth slipping and tongue wet across Zevran’s chest, one hand tight in his hair and the other digging into the flesh of his arse, encouraging the hard, harsh movements that Zevran is struggling to keep rhythmic. The hand leaves his hair and Fenris takes himself in hand, pumping his fist up and down, running his thumb over the oiled head. Zevran shoves into him roughly, and Fenris lifts his hips so that Zevran hits just the right spot, and he gives out a cry, fingers tightening over Zevran’s arse and muscles gripping him firm within him. Zevran gasps, and feels the sudden wetness around his cock, the feeling drawing out another shaking cry from his throat.

 

“I am not used to being so overwhelmed by another. You are an intoxicating man.”

Fenris, lying next to him naked on the bed, only nods, his chest still heaving. His hips are bruised in the shape of Zevran’s fingers, and he’s tracing the shape delicately.

“I don’t suppose you’re up for another go,” continues Zevran.

Fenris rolls his head to look sideways at the other elf. “It’s called a one-night stand.”

“And we still have much of the night ahead of us, I see your point,” grins Zevran. 


	3. Chapter 3

Fenris wakes late in the day to a pounding fist on the door of his mansion. He left the Rose sometime before dawn, stumbled into bed with his last thought being that he can probably never have sex again, because no one will ever be as wonderful as that elf.

“What?” he yells.

“Got a job!” Hawke yells back through the door. Fenris rolls over to look at the sky through the hole in the roof. It’s bright outside, perhaps midday. He doesn’t feel as though he stayed up all night and slept only a few hours, but then, he lives mostly on alcohol these days and rarely feels drunk, or hungry. Perhaps it’s the lyrium, he muses idly as he gets up and washes up just enough to look as though he has slept. He doesn’t need Hawke, or anyone, knowing what sort of night he had, even if the memory of it makes him giddy.

He pulls his fingers through his hair in a vague attempt at making it look brushed, and grabs his sword as he leaves the mansion.

“You look well,” says Hawke through a mouthful of cake. “Want some?” he offers over a small bundle, and Fenris, realising how hungry he is, happily takes it.

“Where are we going?”

“Up the mountain.” Fenris growls, but cannot feel any true irritation. It’s a sunny day and his body feels sweetly exhausted, his arse still sore, his hips bruised, his armour hiding red marks and dark lines that litter his skin. “I reckon Isabela and Varric?”

“You’re being nice,” says Fenris around the cake. “Not inviting a mage.”

“I was going to bring Anders but I don’t want to ruin your good mood.” He punches Fenris lightly on the arm. “I’m lovely, aren’t I?”

“Course you are,” mutters Fenris. He’s glad how their friendship has grown since that night he abandoned him in bed with scarcely an explanation; he’s glad that they are friends, and that he didn’t ruin that by running away from any chances at romance.

They collect Isabela, who happily snatches the cakes from Fenris and stuffs more than her share into her mouth, and Varric, who growls at Isabela until the last cake is given up over to him. They start up the mountain, Hawke bickering with Isabela and Varric making sickening glances at Fenris.

“I don’t act like this with Bianca, do you?”

“You do make the occasional unsavoury comment,” says Fenris, just as Hawke gives Isabela a disgustingly sappy look. “You’re not as bad as them.”

“Dodged an arrow there, I think,” says Varric. Fenris, still thinking of the night before, gives a curt nod. If he had been with Hawke the night he’d had would never have happened. “Oh, look, now the blighter’s run off to gather flowers.” They all stop while Hawke clambers up a cliff.

“Anders will find these useful, I’m sure,” he says, stuffing them into his pack. “Come on, my dear,” he says, reaching out a hand to Isabela. “We’ve got assassins to deal with.”

A few moments later they’re in a cave and Fenris’ good mood is fast dissipating.

“You didn’t say there’d be spiders!” he calls, swinging his sword in a great arc in an attempt to destroy as many as he can in one go. He cleans his sword as best he can once the fight is done. “You owe me more cake,” he says.

“Aw, is puppy-eyes having a bad day?” teases Isabela.

“It was a good day until now,” he snaps.

“Hurry up,” Varric says, his tone belying that he agrees with Fenris’ disgruntled attitude. “There’s probably more down here.”

Isabela hurries forward to keep up with Hawke. It’s a sensible pairing, each warrior with a rogue, but Isabela and Hawke are doing more than keeping an eye out for danger.

“They’re going to get us killed,” says Varric. Fenris only growls in agreement, and they are interrupted by Isabela’s sudden shriek.

“What in Maker’s name is that?”

“Kill it!” yells Hawke. “Kill it with fire!”

“I’m not a bloody mage,” yells Isabela.

Varric doesn’t bother wasting the breath to point out that Hawke means him and his fiery arrows, merely realising a storm of them that sends the creature screaming and hurtling towards Hawke. Fenris leaps in to help the man.

“What was that?” asks Isabela between panting gasps.

“It’s called varterral,” says Varric.

“Is everyone alright?” asks Hawke, but before Fenris can point out that no, actually, he’s fallen over and his ankle hurts quite a bit, can someone give him a hand to get up? there’s a cheery voice.

“I wasn’t expecting you. Hawke, is it, Champion of Kirkwall?”

Hawke folds his arms over his chest. “How do you know who I am?”

“Stories of your great achievements have spread far - Isabela!”

“Zevran! I thought I smelled Antivan leather.”

“You’re looking as fine you always did, if not better.”

“I thought you’d be dead by now.”

“Ah, but my friend is now the King of Ferelden.”

Isabela puts her hand on Hawke’s elbow. “Powerful friends do come in handy.”

Fenris had been in the middle of trying to lever himself up on his sword, testing how sore his ankle truly was.

“Need a hand?” asks Varric, offering one. Fenris uses the dwarf to stand up. “Hurt bad?”

“Should be fine,” says Fenris, tentatively putting weight on his ankle and finding it tender, but not so bad that he cannot walk on it. He turns to see who this stranger is and freezes. No. It was one night, nothing more. He's not meant to run into the man again. 

He blinks, and swallows. The elf is joking with Isabela and Hawke about something, and hasn’t seen him. Perhaps he can claim his ankle hurts too much and sit down again, out of sight until the elf disappears.

No such luck. The elf looks over Hawke’s shoulder and sees him, a wide grin breaking out on his face.

“Fenris!”

“Fenris?” asks Isabela.

“What?” adds Hawke. Having ascertained just how friendly Zevran and Isabela used to be he struggles to fit Fenris into his understanding of this strange elf. “How do you know him?”

Fenris shuffles from one foot to the other and immediately flinches as his ankle takes his weight. The grimace is interpreted differently to the others, and Hawke whirls.

“Did you try to kill him? Have you been sent here by Danarius?”

“You hurt my pride,” says Zevran. “And his, no doubt, for thinking that both of us would be alive had I tried to kill him.”

“It’s not like that,” says Fenris. “We just, uh, ran into each other. At a bar. We had a drink together. It’s not a big deal.” He looks at Zevran pleadingly, but the elf either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

“Not a big deal? My dear elf, now you have hurt my pride, and put yourself down in the same breath! I’ll be remembering that night for years to come.”

“Wait, what?” blurts Hawke. “You, and him?”

“Really?” adds Isabela, her face incredulous. “And you’re still alive?”

Fenris looks away, embarrassed that this has been brought to light so harshly.

“I’m impressed,” says Isabela, surprisingly. “Zevran’s a difficult one to please so thoroughly.”

Zevran chuckles, while Fenris tries hard to look as though he doesn’t want to run away and bury himself under a rock. “Fenris managed to hit all the right targets,” he says. “Perhaps we should do it again,” he adds, giving Fenris a look that is not at all shy. Then he turns back to look at Hawke. “But first, the matter of these assassins.”

“Of course,” says Hawke. “Business before pleasure.”

“And it was very pleasurable,” says Zevran with a final wink at Fenris.

 

 

 

He finds Fenris in his mansion, the elf sitting on the sill of a glassless window, wine bottle in hand looking out over the city.

“You paint a very romantic picture, my friend.”

“I thought you left Kirkwall.”

“It was my plan, but you are here, and they say that the second time with someone is more fun. Less awkward, no?”

“We’ve had a second time,” Fenris points out. “And a third.”

“Is this a rejection?” asks Zevran. Fenris finally turns to look at the other elf, and there’s a look on his face, lust so unguarded that it nearly sends Zevran reeling.

“Maker, no,” growls Fenris, rising from his perch and stalking towards him. Without any hesitation he takes Zevran’s face in his hands. “Tonight, you are mine.”


End file.
